


eye of the beholder

by Yuu_chi



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Arthur's Journals, Chapter Three Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Post injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 15:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16684162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuu_chi/pseuds/Yuu_chi
Summary: He thinks of John last night, on his back flicking through the pages with the faintest look of wonder on his face. Of the way he’d clutched it close when Arthur had tried to pull it away. It’s enough to make his sore heart ache, and he wonders why he does this every time.





	eye of the beholder

 

 

For a week, Arthur don’t have much memory of anything at all.

He knows he’s been shot. He knows he’s got one foot in death’s door and the other stuck stubbornly in the muddy pit of life. He knows he ain’t ever been in this much pain his whole damn life. He knows, also, that this is more serious than his poor, muddled brain can hope to process.

Mostly what he knows is this:

Darkness and fear. Brief moments of awareness where he sees somebody looming over him, the coolness of water being wrung atop his lips. The feverish question that rattles in his head alongside every sluggish beat of his heart.

_Is this it? Is this really gonna be how I go?_

It is not the first time Arthur looks death in the eye and - thankfully - it will not be the last. But it is perhaps the first time that Arthur realizes just how lonely the other side seems.

After six days in bed his fever breaks. The redness of the hole in his shoulder eases. Conscious thought returns to him, and with it control of the aching wreck that is his body.

Arthur lives to die another day.

Dutch is so apologetic it borders on distraught. Most of Arthur’s time in recovery is a haze at best, but he remembers Dutch cradling his face, his guilt-wracked voice breaking as he says, “My boy. My dear, dear boy.”

Even amidst the pain and the uncertainty, that had been a greater comfort than Arthur will ever be willing to admit.

(it is not that he doubts Dutch’s affection for him. Dutch is his father in everything but blood. It is just that some days Arthur can feel too keenly the absence of Dutch’s attention in the face of other, greater things that demand it.

When it comes down to it, Arthur is a selfish man, and it’s a hard thing to go from the golden child to nobody at all.)

“Glad to see you on your feet, Mr. Morgan,” says Ms. Grimshaw when Arthur finally manages to stumble from one side of the campsite to the other. “I was half sure you’d be in that bed for so long you’d forget how to use them.”

“Thank you, Ms. Grimshaw,” Arthur says, voice hollow and raspy. “Your thoughtfulness means a great deal, believe me.”

The camp rallies around him, showering him in attention and affection. It’s always like this. Sometimes, a good scare reminds the lot of them how long it’s really been since a kind word passed between them all, worn thin and tired by the constant pressure of their life on the run. Arthur don’t mind it, not really. The fussing passes quick enough, and he’d be a fool too turn away what little affection can be won.

Abigail brings Jack to see him while Arthur is still too weak to leave his tent for more than a few hours at a time. Jack climbs up on the bed with him, folding himself atop Arthur’s ankles, and beams with pride as he shows him the hideous toy soldiers Pearson had taught him how to whittle.

“Would you look at that,” Arthur marvels, patting his hair gently. “You turnin’ out real fine with a knife, boy.”

“Mama says I can’t use one on my own yet,” he says.

“Well,” Arthur says, sparing Abigail an amused look. “Your mama sure is wise. Wouldn’t wanna go ending up like me now, would you? Think we got enough bedridden fools in this camp at the moment.”

Jack picks up one of Arthur’s hands and presses the ugliest soldier into his palm. “For you,” he says brightly. “A good luck charm!”

Jack has his father’s smile. Probably was the one who took it from him, truth be told. The familiar curve of the corner of his mouth against the childish naiveite of his expression turns Arthur’s throat thick.

“Why, thank you,” he says, folding his fingers around the rough knots of the wood. “I’ll be sure to keep it safe.”

“Come on now,” Abigail says, holding out a hand to help Jack down from the bed. “I think we’ve bothered Uncle Arthur enough. Go sit by the fire a minute, would you?”

Jack obliges happily, scampering away with the kind of enthusiasm that makes Arthur’s old bones ache. Abigail watches him like a hawk until he passes safely into the custody of Sean and Bill, who gently lure him to their side with the ease of long familiarity.

“That boy sure is growin’ up fast,” Arthur says wistfully.

Abigail offers him a tight smile. “Too fast, sometimes.”

Quiet falls between them. Arthur clears his throat, smoothing out the creases in the blanket over his lap. He wants to ask so desperately that he can feel the question choking him, but it don’t feel like his right. Eventually, the silence breaks him. “How’s - how’s that man of yours doin’? I ain’t seen hair or hide of him since I got back here.”

Abigail snorts. “He was here when you was still half dead on the bed,” she says. “Came by once or twice, I think. Not that he would have told me or anyone else.”

There’s a warm feeling in Arthur’s empty chest, heating the sore, hollow space around it. “Oh,” he says. “Thought he would have stuck around and given me a hell for the whole thing.”

Abigail softens, just a little. “I’m sure he’s planning on it,” she says. “I ain’t even seen either of you two fools pass up the chance to pick a fight.”

Arthur offers her a hopefully charming grin. “I’ve known the idiot for fifteen years. If I don’t put him in his place, who will?”

Abigail’s mouth tightens. Awkwardly, Arthur realizes how that might have sounded and curses his inability not to tread on the rocky ground between the three of them that has never quite smoothed over.

It’s not Arthur’s job to do anything. At some point, that honour should rightfully have passed to the mother of John’s child.

“He’ll turn up,” Abigail says, instead of the multitude or other thing she probably could. “He’s like that. A bad penny.”

“A cockroach,” Arthur offers, and that at least draws a laugh from her.

“Get well soon, Arthur,” she says. “The boy misses you.”

She goes, collecting her son from the fireside and leaving Arthur with nothing but a knot in his throat and the rough wood of Jack’s soldier in his hand to keep him company.

.

By the time Arthur is about as right as he’s ever likely to get again, John is still missing. Nobody seems concerned about it, so Arthur doesn’t permit himself to be either. Despite the hell he gives him, he knows that John ain’t gonna ride off on them again, not now.

Besides, he has bigger things to worry about. They’d found his horse wandering alongside the clifftop after he’d been taken, but everything on him was long gone. His money, his guns, his journal - all of it looted and taken to god knows where.

The camp replaces his missing guns as best as they can, and Dutch gives him enough cash to hold him over until he can earn some back himself, but those aren’t the losses that sting the most.

Arthur has been keeping that journal since the godforsaken mountains. The rest of his collection had been left behind in Blackwater, and now he feels oddly at a loss without the knowledge of it tucked safely into his saddlebags.

Arthur’s been keeping journals since before Dutch took him in. It’s a way to keep track of the world, to remind himself of his place in it. Somewhere to be alone in his thoughts, to sketch out the few bright sparks he can find in the mess of the world around them.

It… it means something to him. And it means something to have lost it again. That’s the kind of hurt that Arthur can’t hope to share with the others, and it’s the freshest because of it.

Thirteen days after he’d stumbled half-dead back into camp, Arthur decides he’s had enough of being coddled and crowded. If he can walk, he can ride, and he ain’t staying holed up in his tent another damn minute.

“I’m heading out,” he calls to Kieran as he hobbles his way to the horses, determined.

Kieran looks up from feeding Tilly’s horse and eyes him shrewdly. “You sure that’s a good idea, sir?”

“I’m sure I’m gonna shoot Uncle in his damned face if I don’t,” Arthur mutters as he unties Brutus from the hitching post.  He takes a deep breath, settling his hands on the saddle for a second before he finds the courage to haul himself up and in. It hurts, but not as bad as he’d feared, and the relief is crushing. “Alright. I’ll be back when I’m back. Tell Dutch not to worry none.”

Kieran doesn’t look convinced, but the boy ain’t got the courage to argue back. He watches Arthur ride out and into the forest with a pinched mouth.

Being amongst the greenery and life of the trees again is enough to immediately ease the tension coiled tight in Arthur’s gut. He ain’t made for a life of being laid up, and just two weeks stuck in the camp had been enough to remind him of that.

Hosea had once accused him of having the wandering itch that got folks into all sorts of trouble. The older Arthur’s gotten, the more he’s come to realise it’s true. Whether he’d been born like that, or it’s just the natural conclusion of a life lived on the whims of the law, he ain’t sure, but it’s true now.

He rides out from Clemens Point, sticking close to the lake and giving Rhodes a hard pass. He’s not in the mood for civilization, and thinks he might very well punch the first person who sneaks up behind him without meaning to.

It’d been closing in on evening when he left, and he rides until dusk settles heavy and thick along the roiling hills. It’s only been an hour or two, but already he feels stiff and sore in the saddle, and he decides to do himself the kindness of stopping early for the night.

Setting up camp takes longer that it ought to, and by the time the fire’s crackling and the tent is pitched, he’s shaky with exhaustion. He’s got some stringy jerky and he spends a good ten minutes gnawing at it until he gives it up for a lost cause and tosses it into the bushes. A moment later a coyote snatches it up and sprints away. Arthur watches it go tiredly.

He knows it’s not even been a month since the attack, but he hates how weak he feels. Sore all over, and exhausted by the simplest of things. Useless as a goddamn child, and a small, terrified part of himself is worried this is just gonna be how things are now.

“Aw, for Christ’s sake,” Arthur grunts, scrubbing his hands over his face. He gives the night up for a lost cause and crawls into the tiny shelter of his tent.

He passes out quickly, lulled by the soothing sounds of the lake beside him and the calls of the coyotes in the hills. His dreams are vicious, nasty things, but they often are, and Arthur has long since made his peace with that.

He’s right in the middle of swinging in Colm’s basement when he feels somebody grabbing his ankle. For a moment, he thinks it’s the chains tightening, and he kicks out in a panic, only half awake, and is greeted by a sharp yelp and a very familiar hiss of pain.

He’s face down in the tent, and his campfire is nothing but embers. A hand tightens around his ankle again and Arthur struggles to flip to his back, hoisting himself up on his elbows as he blinks at the dark shape looming in front of his tent. “Marston?”

“Goddamn, Morgan,” John says, the familiar scratch of his voice music to Arthur’s ears. “You kick wilder than your damned horse.”

Arthur lets out a tight breath. “Ain’t you ever learn not to sneak up on a fella while he’s sleeping? Jesus, you oughta be lucky I didn’t just shoot your fool ass.”

John’s hand on his ankle squeezes for a moment before pulling back. Arthur’s night vision is kicking in now, and he can make out the sharp angles of John’s face, the silver shine of his scars in the moonlight. His eyes are almost black in the darkness. “Thought I recognized your horse,” he says. “Wanted to know if you was really fool enough to camp out in the open like this. Didn’t expect to be right.”

“Aw, shut your damn mouth,” Arthur grouses, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Just because it’s by the water don’t make it open, and I’ve got a gun.” He lifts the revolver from his side, to prove the point. “I ain’t as dumb as you, if that’s what you was worried about.”

He’d expected John to snap back, but instead the corner of his mouth twitches up in what could barely pass as a smile. It’s been so long since Arthur’s seen it that it momentarily stops him in his tracks.

“I see you lived after all,” John says. “Pity. Looks like I owe Javier some money.”

“Yeah, well maybe you’d have known sooner if you bothered to show you face around the camp sometimes,” Arthur says. “What’s you doin’ out here anyway?”

“I was on my way back,” John says, evasive. “You didn’t get very far, old man.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and slowly lowers himself back to the ground with a groan. “Leave me alone,” he says. “I’m an injured man here, Marston. I’m doin’ my best.”

He hears John snort, and then the rattle of the tent as John crawls further inside, despite the fact Arthur hasn’t invited him. It’s not a space made for two people, especially not men of their size, but John’s always been a weasley bastard and he slots himself against Arthur’s side with ease.

Arthur forcibly does not allow himself to focus on the warmth of their skin. “What you doin’, boy?”

“What, you too good to share your belongings with the rest of us now?” John replies. “You ain’t ever had a problem before.”

Before Arthur can think of what to say in response, something heavy drops atop his chest, surprising the breath out of him. He frowns, shifting upright to grab at it. From the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of John’s deliberately expressionless face.

His fingers brush smooth leather. An electric spike of shock runs through him and Arthur struggles to find the space to sit upright, elbowing John in his rush.

It’s his journal. The one Colm had taken, along with the rest of his things. Arthur’s fingers fit into the familiar grooves along the spine with ease. It falls open to the last sketch he did of the campsite, the careful curve of a back hunched in front of the fire unidentifiable to anybody but him.

“What -.”

“It ain’t a big deal,” John says gruffly. He’s on his side, elbow on the ground and chin atop his palm. He’s not looking Arthur in the face. “I - I found it down the river some ways, caught in a bush. Rest of your stuff had been picked clean by wolves, I reckon, but they didn’t seem too interested in that at least.”

Arthur’s fingers brush the edges of the page. There’re bloodstains there that weren’t last time he saw it, and more than one page is crooked and half hanging out. But it’s his journal, his one point of his stability, and having it in his hands again after he’d given it up is strangely disorientating.

“Is this what you was gone missing for?” Arthur asks. “Huntin’ through the scrubland for my things?”

He expects John to scowl at him, but he just shrugs awkwardly, still not meeting his eye. “You was gonna be a right child over that thing,” he says. “You were unbearable after you lost the lot in Blackwater.”

Arthur hadn’t been. He hadn’t even mentioned the journals to anybody. There had been too much else going on, and Arthur wasn’t going to embarrass himself by complaining about a few missing bits of paper.

Arthur’s hands tighten around the cover. “Jesus, Marston,” he says, strained.

“If you don’t want it, give it back,” John says mulishly, holding out a hand. His knuckles are scraped, and Arthur wonders if maybe his things hadn’t been found so lonesome after all. “If you’re gonna be ungrateful over it -.”

“I ain’t ungrateful, you damn fool,” Arthur says. “God almighty, you gotta make things difficult, don’t you?”

“I -.”

Arthur puts the journal aside and fists his hands in John’s shirt. He gets a brief glance at the surprise on his face before he reels him in and kisses him hard enough to hurt.

John’s hands scrabble at his back for a second as he gets his bearing, but then his fingers catch in Arthur’s jacket, and with the grace of age-old familiarity he hauls himself up and into Arthur’s lap, spry as a cat. He has to duck his head to avoid hitting it on the tent, and he pushes Arthur back to the ground as he goes.

It’s been a long time since they’ve done this, but sense memory is a scary thing, and Arthur still remembers exactly where to get his hands to have John arching against him, hissing against his mouth, hair falling into Arthur’s face.

How long? Two years? Three? After he’d come back, for that one final, angry time. And then nothing. A silent agreement that space would finally break down whatever was left between them and leave them better off for it.

Except it hadn’t. And Arthur has spent many long years growing angrier and angrier beneath the enduring impossibility of John Marston and the effect he has on him - has always had, and seem always will.

“We far enough from camp for this?” John mutters, shoving at Arthur’s shoulders until he lifts them enough for John to slide his jacket off.

“We ain’t that close,” Arthur grunts, hands stumbling over the buttons of John’s jeans. “It’s a good few hours away at least.”

“Quiet night,” John observes, breath hot as he leans down to bite at Arthur’s shoulder.

“Then don’t get too loud,” Arthur says, and finally manages to get his hand in John’s pants.

The gasp John heaves against his skin is hot and gratifying. Arthur slides his thumb over the head of his cock and then begins to jerk him off rough and hard, grip looser than he knows John prefers it. The hot twitch of him against Arthur’s palm is almost as good as the feeling of John’s hands sliding down his chest, opening his shirt with deft fingers.

“You well enough for this, old man?” John asks, even as he bucks into Arthur’s hand in one move and grinds down against his dick in the next. Arthur had only managed to get the top two buttons of his shirt open before he got distracted, and John makes quite the sight, disheveled and moonlight-shadowed atop him.

Arthur manages to get his free hand on John’s thigh and pulls, spreading his legs further, sinking John down. Arthur’s still dressed, more or less, but the heavy weight of John’s ass against his trapped erection is working for him just fine. “Shut up and do something useful for once, Marston.”

This time when John smiles, it’s wickedly sharp. Despite the situation, there’s a furious pang in Arthur’s chest at the sight of it.

“Useful,” John scoffs, and then spreads his hands out on Arthur’s chest and grinds down hard against his cock. He leans forward and catches Arthur’s groan in his mouth, hand coming up to tangle his fingers in Arthur’s hair, jerking his head to the side so he can bite at his neck.

It’s far too early, but already Arthur can feel his orgasm closing in. Just the sight of John like this again is enough, and to feel him hot and heavy in his hand. John’s mouth on him, his body pressing tight against him, is just a bonus.

“You’re thinking too much,” John grunts, reaching down to grab Arthur’s wrist, fingers against the thunder of his pulse point. “Keep going,” he says. “I’m almost - _fuck_.”

John’s eagerness is the last push. Arthur struggles as upright as he can, their foreheads knocking together, tangled up in a collection of uncomfortable angles. John holds his wrist as Arthur jerks him off, nails biting against his skin, mouths brushing together but too preoccupied to do anything else.

“Shit,” John says, and then he gives a full body shiver, tucking his chin over Arthur’s shoulder as he comes messily into Arthur’s hand.

John doesn’t even take a moment to come down from his own high. His hands are already fumbling with Arthur’s buttons as Arthur slowly withdraws his hand from John’s pants. “Here,” John says, grabbing Arthur’s wrist again and forcibly directing him to his own dick. “Come on, come on.”

Arthur’s wound up tighter than a spring at this point and he’s helpless to do anything but whatever John wants him to. He jerks himself off with a hand still wet with John’s come, and John clutches him tight all the while, one hand bumping against Arthur’s own, and the other tight against the back of his neck as they breathe against each other’s mouths.

“Come on,” John says again, breathless. The hand on the back of Arthur’s neck tilts his head so John can bite lightly at his chin. “God, shit - this is good. You’re damn good, Morgan.”

That about does it for Arthur. The world goes silent as he comes shaking in John’s grip, incredibly conscious of the heavy weight of John’s hands on every inch of his skin and the bright flint of his eyes.

Arthur’s mind is so hectic and weary that for a moment he feels like he’s caught in the ghost of a hundred other moments just like this. The familiarity of John’s touch offers a sense of home that nothing has ever been able to match, and the cold ache of his constant apathy struggles against the presence of it.

They stay like that for a long moment. Arthur’s senses return to him slowly and he can hear the faint rush of the water, the distant nighttime sounds of the wild. The countless stars paint the world to a faded grey, washing everything clear of colour, and Arthur can feel the brush of John’s hair against his skin.

Eventually, Arthur pulls away. John reacts instantly, shuffling backwards and granting Arthur enough space to crawl out of the tent. He doesn’t follow him, stays hidden beneath the canvas and cloth, but Arthur can feel the weight of his gaze as he waddles away down to the river bank.

He takes his time washing up, splashing water on his face and wetting a cloth to press along the sweaty back of his neck, as if it might chase away the red-hot heat there. He’d hitched Brutus near to the water's edge where the grass was greener, and he watches him with judgmental dark eyes as Arthur re-buttons his pants.

“You’re a damn horse,” Arthur mutters, even as he shuffles closer to pat him soothingly along the neck. “You don’t get an opinion, you hear?”

Brutus snuffles and turns his head away, chewing idly on a nearby branch.

All these goddamn years, and Arthur breaks as easily as a twig in a storm, rendering every moment he’d held back pointless and ultimately useless.

He wishes he were more surprised. He wishes he regretted it more. He thinks of facing Abigail back at camp, and that finally sparks the faintest embers of guilt in his gut, but it’s still not enough to drown out the lingering warmth on his skin.

This ain’t the first mistake Arthur’s made, and all things considered it ain’t the worst either.

“Alright,” Arthur sighs, patting Brutus one more time. “Alright, alright, alright.”

When he gets back to the tent John is on his back, Arthur’s journal held over his head as he flicks through it. He hasn’t bothered to fix up his belt or button his pants, and he looks more debauched than Arthur thinks is justified considering as far as he remembers John had been doing most of the debauching.

“Ain’t you understand privacy?” Arthur says, standing over him.

John flicks a page and doesn’t look up. “You had my cock in your hand five minutes ago, Morgan. You sure did pick a funny time to worry about privacy.”

“Move over,” Arthur demands, kicking at John’s side. “Don’t know how you hope to fit two in here with your fat ass.”

“Worked fine a second ago,” John says, but shuffles over obediently, granting Arthur a sliver of his own sleeping roll. Arthur knows better than to press his luck, so he crawls in to claim it, making sure to knee John in the side as he goes.

John winces but doesn’t respond. He’s still preoccupied with the journal, eyes tracing the scrawled lead of Arthur’s sketches. Although he knows John wouldn’t actually read through any of his entries, he’s irrationally paranoid. “Would you stop that?” he says, making a grab for it. “There’s nothin’ interesting there, anyway.”

John rolls out of the way, nearly knocking over the tent. “You never let anybody see any of your fancy drawings,” he says.

“That’s because it’s my business not yours,” Arthur growls, but gives up the fight. “They’re just dumb scribblings.”

John snorts, finally lowering the journal and gives Arthur an annoyed glance. “And you call me the dumb one,” he says. Gently, he closes it, setting it aside with more care than Arthur would have thought. “Wouldn’t have expected you to have a real talent outside of fillin’ folks with lead, but there it is.”

It’s incredibly stupid how such an offhand comment makes Arthur’s skin hot, especially at his age. “Shut up, would you?”

John cranes his head to look at him, amused. “You embarrassed? Well, it’s just a night of firsts, ain’t it?”

Arthur rolls closer, throwing an arm over John and crushing him into the ground. “God, do you ever just get sick of hearing yourself talk, Marston? Can’t a man get some sleep around here?”

John squirms viciously, elbowing Arthur in the side, but somehow he winds up closer rather than further away. “Wouldn’t want you to miss out on your beauty sleep, old man.”

Arthur sighs, but resists the urge to keep on bickering by sheer strength of will. “Are you sleepin’ here tonight?”

John goes still. There’s not enough space in the tent for Arthur to actually look at his face, and he’s strangely thankful for that. “I was gonna,” John says carefully. “Is that a problem?”

Probably. There isn’t anything about John Marston that _isn’t_ a problem, but Arthur doesn’t have the strength to deal with their complicated mess of a relationship tonight. So far, things had been - they’d been good. The best they had in a long time. Come the morning, they won’t be, but that’s the morning, and Arthur don’t wanna rush it.

Just for one night, he wants to give himself permission to have a good thing. Just for one night. Even if it’s a lie.

“Yeah, okay,” he says.

“Okay,” John says, voice a little rough. He still doesn’t pull away. His bony shoulder is bumping against Arthur’s cheek, but Arthur just lets it be.

He expects to be too tense and distracted to actually sleep again, but against all odds the familiar rhythm of John’s breathing beside him is the missing anchor he didn’t know he needed, and he goes quick and painlessly into unconsciousness.

He dreams of Colm’s basement again. This time, of the candle and the gunpowder. It’s awful, but it’s still just a dream, and Arthur’s sleep is a shallow one - all the while, he’s aware of the weight of another body beside him, and that’s enough to keep down the depth of the horrors.

Arthur wakes at the rise of dawn. John is still asleep, one arm over his face, and the other crushed under Arthur’s shoulders. He’s gonna be feeling that when he wakes up, and that thought is cheerful enough get Arthur all the way awake and out of the tent.

John stirs briefly, but Arthur pats him lightly on the shoulder and says, “It’s still early. Get some rest.”

John says something, Arthur thinks, but it’s lost in a mumble. He rolls back onto his side and is asleep again in seconds.

Arthur restokes the fire and feeds their horses. He starts some coffee, and digs out the biscuits from the bottom of his bag he’d been saving for a special occasion and sets them aside for breakfast. Then he retrieves his journal and opens the cracked covers.

He takes some time flicking through it, remembering the sprawl of the pages, the chicken-scratch of his handwriting. He warms his fingertips on the smudged edges of old sketches, and learns where the bloodstains have rendered the paper illegible.

To him, it’s a clutter of comfort. Messy but familiar. It’s a stupid sorta thought, but he’s always reckoned this is how the inside of his fool head looked, when you translate it best as it can be.

Ugly. Chaotic. Recognizable only to him. Old-fashioned and part of a dying breed.

He thinks of John last night, on his back flicking through the pages with the faintest look of wonder on his face. Of the way he’d clutched it close when Arthur had tried to pull it away. It’s enough to make his sore heart ache, and he wonders why he does this every time.

Carefully, he turns to a new page. There’s some lead in the bottom of his bag he’d been optimistically keeping in case he could chase down a fresh journal in town, and it feels familiar and welcome in his fingertips.

In the tent, John snores loudly. He’s got his back to Arthur, but Arthur has traced it with his fingertips enough times to know every knot in his spine, ever scar and nick that catches on his skin.

He reckons it ain’t his right to know such things, but he’s never been a man much given to the understanding of right and wrong, and he’s not going to turn down what’s been freely offered.

Arthur settles with his back to a tree, legs kicked out and crossed in front of him, and journal open on his lap. He considered the light and the angles, John’s hunched figure and the mess of his hair.

Arthur had started his journals to remind himself that life ain’t always just a valley of lows, that occasionally there’s a grassy mountaintop and the far reach of the clouds. No matter what happens, no matter where life goes, he will always have these moments of peace, of goodness, and it’s his duty to remember them as they are, so that even when they’re gone he’ll have the proof they _were_ at all.

Gentle, Arthur touches the lead to the paper. Far off, he can hear deer trampling through the grass. The wound in his shoulder aches, and as he sketches John rolls over, snoring lightly under his breath.

And Arthur, for the first time in a long time, understands peace.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i still haven't quite finished this game, but i'm incredibly emotional about it. i actually have another 15k+ fic im finishing up for this ship already, so. this was an indulgence. 
> 
> tumblr: glenflower  
> twitter: @doingwritebyme


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